To See Salvation
by Talyn
Summary: Set before and during SC1. Siegfried battles with Inferno for his soul. Meanwhile, Ivy, Cervantes and the other heroes have their own agenda... Abandoned.
1. Welcome Back to the Stage of History

Not since the death of Sir Stefan at the hands of his traitorous Captain had Ostrheinsburg Castle been alive with soldiers.  The air in the valley below was filled with shouts and harsh laughter, and the ringing of metal on metal, the clatter of hooves and tramp of marching feet filled the air with the ambience of war.  These fighters, however, were not the disciplined retainers that the castle has housed in the past – instead of the armored footmen under Sir Stefan's banner, these men were wild and rowdy warriors.  Savage berserkers from the west and north lived next to Italian renegades, French rebels, and English pirates, brutal killers all, clad in scavenged armor and wielding a wild assortment of weapons.

As fearsome as these men were, however, the most terrifying soldiers in this horde lived in mud huts on the ruined castle's parade field.  These were the elite troops, savage monsters known as the Lizardmen.  They were far more sedate than the men in the valley, but much more menacing.  The center hut housed their leader – a monster larger and more fearsome than the rest, and possessed with a devilish intelligence.  Rumor stated that he was a man once, a warrior cursed by an evil god, and all knew that he was fearsome, and loyal only the leader of the fell army.

Up behind the ruined castle stood a burned-out chapel, where the leader made his camp.  None of the warriors in the army dared approach, for it was a cursed place.  Only the captains and their leader's personal guard were allowed to climb the steep path that led to the chapel door, and the Nightmare was not one that any sane man would cross.

The two armored men jogging up the hill were enormous, hugely muscular men.  Despite the weight of their armor and tremendous weapons, they moved at a surprising pace; these two men were the captains of the army in the valley, and they had been summoned by the Nightmare to an evening council.  And when summoned, you were well advised to make no delay and presenting yourself to the Chapel.

The berserker at the doorway to the chapel raised his fist in salute to the two captains, and then jerked a thumb towards the threatening sky.  "Lord Azure is on the top level, _mein kompanileutnant_[i]," he rasped.  The two men nodded, and slung their weapons behind them – one a broadsword and shield, the other an enormous hammer.  The Nightmare had been known to react badly to weapons out and about in his presence, and it had led to one bodyguard killed already.  No sense in taking chances, after all.

The first thing that a new bodyguard or captain thought to themselves when seeing the Nightmare out of his armor was how young he was – how could it be that the Scourge of Europe, the most powerful warrior in the world, could be this handsome, callow, blond-haired boy?  The second, of course, was the corruption on his body – his sword arm was enormous and deformed, ending in a demonic claw and covered with tough hide and evil looking ridges.  His face was equally arresting – his eyes were always bloodshot, it seemed, his face was noticeably scarred, and many swore that his teeth were sharp fangs.

When he talked, however, any doubt that the youth reclining in the chair was indeed the Nightmare was dispelled – it was that deep rumble that struck terror into foes and gave such heart to his own troops.  That deceptively handsome face looked up at the two captains and he nodded.  "You have arrived, and we can begin," he murmured.

The two clenched their fists in salute.  "Yes, Lord Azure." 

The captains took their seats at the table, eyeing their companions.  There were three others already present – one, a slender man with a thin black beard, wearing red and green robes etched with eldritch symbols.  This was N'Brid, Priest of War and the leader of the Nightmare's small force of sorcerers, demonologists, and occultists.  The next was wrapped up in an armored leather bodysuit, all black as night.  He was Bertrand "_Le Nuit Toxique[ii]" _D'Bergeron, a French assassin who oversaw the Nightmare's scouts and spies, and, it was rumored, dealt death personally to those within the army who displeased the Nightmare.

The third – _thing_ – at the table was the captain of the Lizardmen, a vicious monster who fought with a gladius and small shield, and who was regarded by the humans with a mixture of fear and respect.  Unlike its monstrous soldiers, however, this Lizardman could speak languages that men could comprehend – the captains had heard it hiss in German, English, Greek, and an Eastern language they didn't understand.  It flicked its forked tongue out at the armored men as they say, its version of a friendly nod.

The Nightmare stood and leaned on the table.  In the torchlight, his blond hair was the color of blood, and his eyes glowed red as he spoke.  He spoke in German.  "I was… contacted… a few days ago by a woman, who wished my assistance.  She spoke to me in a vision, saying that she wished to join me, as another of my Captains.  She called herself the Countess Valentine."  The Nightmare looked at each man around the table in turn, gauging their reactions.  The two armored warriors glanced at each other, the sorcerer smirked, and the assassin and beast looked on, their expressions indecipherable.

"Perhaps I can enlighten you, Lord Azure," the sorcerer said, his oily voice a sharp contrast to the Nightmare's growl.  "This woman," he said contemptuously, "is a known dabbler in the Arts, and supposedly has a following England."

"She is a sorceress, then?"

"Hardly, my lord.  She is an _alchemist_," he practically spat the word as if its mere mention befouled his lips, "who plays with steel and chemicals.  Hardly a true magic user."

"Yet she seems to think she has something that I need – this intrigues me."  There was silence about the table for a moment, and then the blond man glanced the man in black to his right.  "What do you know, Poison?"

The assassin nodded briefly.  "I know nothing of magic, my lord, but I know beyond a doubt that the woman is one of the finest swordsmen in Europe.  Her reputation is beyond question – not only is she known for her wealth, beauty, and keen intelligence, but for her victories with her sword.  The weapon itself is unique, as well, a mechanical toy that can, with the right skill, become a steel whip."  The two warriors at the end of the table glanced at each other again.  "For myself, my lord, I would very much wish to speak to Lady Valentine, and perhaps learn the secrets of her blade."

"Very well, I am decided.  Priest, contact Valentine and tell her that she is to meet me here, and that she is to come alone.  Bertrand, may speak to her only after she has provided her assistance to me.  Captains, I want you each to choose four of your best fighters and have them ready at any time – we will see for ourselves if she is as good as her reputation claims."  The three captains bowed their heads in acknowledgment, the Night Poison smiled slightly, and N'Brid pursed his lips in distaste, and then nodded as well.

"Now leave me," the Nightmare growled.  "Have the guard send up Anika."

Even with the demon-fire raging in his brain, the man Siegfried was capable of resisting the evil of the Soul Edge.  When Inferno was distracted, or the sword was damaged, Siegfried could regain control of the body for short periods of time – dangerous diversions that had cost Soul Edge souls, and had nearly gotten the host body killed on one occasion.

It was because of this internal battle that Inferno had the witch Anika tend to him when the body rested.  The woman's magic had the power to affect the spirit, and Inferno needed her help to keep Siegfried Schtauffen dormant.  The fact that she was a beautiful and strong-willed woman was inconsequential to Inferno; let the captains think what they would about their leader demanding the woman in his bed at night, he didn't care.  All that mattered to Inferno was that the Soul Edge be fed without tiresome, mortal distractions.

Furthermore, though it galled the demon to admit it, the force with which he drove the body was exhausting, both to it and to him.  Without the woman's ministrations, Inferno would have been forced to seek out a new host after he had killed the body of this one from overwork.

The demon lay the massive form of the Soul Edge against the wall, and stripped its host body down to his worn undergarments.  Inferno congratulated himself on his excellent choice for host – this one was young, and unbelievably strong.  His old host was too old, too worn from years of battle to properly support him, but this mortal… the demon was almost impressed.

Inferno lay the body on the bed, suppressing with a trace of irritation the stirring of the mortal's free will.  The mortal had been relatively quiet, lately, but this evening it had snapped at its chains a bit, and the buzzing in his head had been a distraction throughout the evening.  The sooner that the witch benumbed the mortal, the better.

The demon _sensed_ the witch enter the room, even though the mortal's eyes were shut.  Her soul was very strong, and the Soul Edge desired it, but her services were too valuable for her to be used as feed.  "Attend to me, witch," the body rasped from its position prone on the bed.

"Yes, Lord Azure."

Silently, the woman walked over to the bed and pulled out her medicine bag.  A variety of herbs and salves were discarded before she found the one she wanted.  With surprising strength, she began to rub the ointment into the host's back, easing the aches of the muscles and healing the tiny tears that formed inside the mortal's flesh.

After a long time, Inferno felt the stresses of the body ease, and jerked his host's head to indicate that he was physically fine, and that the witch should move on to the next phase.  She lifted her hands from the small of the back and placed them on the host's temples.  That irritating buzzing of the mortal's soul was instantly silenced, and Inferno allowed himself to rest.

Dealing with strong-willed mortals was exhausting, to be sure.  That pirate was much easier…

Anika plunged through the spiritual darkness, clutching the golden thread of Siegfried Schtauffen's soul until she found herself in a metaphysical room somewhere deep within the spiritual world.

"You are getting much stronger, Herr Schtauffen," the witch purred.  Her German was thickly accented, but far better than her companion's Nordic. "It is not as much so far to fall, this time."

The room itself was unremarkable, bed, chair, desk, flagstone floor, similar to one might find in any castle in Europe.  What was unusual was its sole occupant, a blond-haired young man who was looking at her with a weary smile on his face.

"_Meinedamme_ Anika[iii], if that is so then it is you that I must thank," said Siegfried with the highest formal courtesy.

Anika sighed.  It had been weeks since she had made contact with his spirit, alone in the void and raging against the demon, and still he remained so formal.  "I am glad to be helping you," she said carefully, fighting her away around the unfamiliar language.  "Kjærsiegfried[iv], you must not call me 'milady.'  I wish to be your _friend_, not so distant."

At this, Siegfried smiled all out, and stood to clasp her arm.  "Yes, it is so.  Very well then, Anika my friend, how long until I am close enough to break free from this prison and send the monster back to Hell?"

At this, the witch's face fell.  "It will to be a long time, I am thinking.  You must try not to resist him so much – he can sense when you are active, and if he suspects that I am helping you he will kill me without a second thought."  She laughed bitterly.  "Though that would kill your body for certain – the extra weight of the corrupted arm is tearing you apart, Siegfried.  The human body is not designed to hold so much weight so far from the center of the body.  If you weren't so strong, or if I couldn't go and repair the damage, your body would be crippled in a bed somewhere because of that stupid beast in your skull!"

Surprised at her own vehemence, she looked up at Siegfried, who was flexing the fingers of his right hand and wincing.  "If I… _when _I break free from Inferno, will I be able move my fingers again?  I know I can do it here, but 'here' isn't a real place.  It's a figment of my _gottdammen[v]_ imagination!  Back when I _could_ be in control, just for a little bit, that cancerous arm was a constant reminder of the demon.  When he is gone, will I have my own body back, again?"

She looked grim and sad, and Siegfried looked away.  "I don't know."

The young man's face might have been carved from stone.  "We will burn that bridge when we come to it, then."

"Aye, that we will.  I must return to the physical world.  Continue to train your mind, and I will bring you back soon.  When that happens, you must remember to seize your own mind and keep hold of it until I can draw the demon out.  You _must_ be strong."

"I will be.  Farewell, Anika.  And… thank you.  For hope."

It should not have been possible for tears to form on her eyes, here on the spiritual plane, but she felt the stinging nevertheless.  Impulsively, she grabbed him and kissed him on the lips.  Before he could react, she had reached out with her mind and followed the golden cord that led back to the Ostrheinsburg Chapel and the monster that lay within it.

_Be strong, kjærSiegfried. Be strong._

A/N:  Oy, that was hard to write.  I've been working on this off-and-on for nearly a week.  Anyways, this is definitely a Nightmare/Siegfried fic, with Ivy, Astaroth and a few OFCs playing strong supporting roles.  Much of the rest of the SC1 cast will be making appearances, and I'll make sure to keep this as close to SC1 and SC2 "canon" as possible.

* * *

[i] German.  "captain of my unit"

[ii] French.  "The Poison Night"

[iii] German.  "My lady Anika."  Very formal.

[iv] Norwegian,  "Siegfried, my dear"  Very casual and affectionate.

[v] German.  "God-damned." A curse.


	2. This Sword Is My Destiny

"Milady Isabell, are you absolutely sure that this is the wisest course? It is not too late for us to turn around and book passage back to England…"

The tall woman pursed her lips in impatience and adjusted the lapels of her riding coat. It was a man's garb, all of her clothes were, even the heeled, steel-covered boots. All of her clothing was slightly tattered and travel stained, but was of extremely expense cut and material.

"Silence, Victor," she commanded in her more imperious tone. She glanced back at the old man riding on the cart behind her. From atop her horse, she looked down at the wizened servant. "I have heard your arguments before, and I weary of them. This creature, this Azure Nightmare, will be the final step in my journey for the Ultimate Weapon. If, in the course of my travels, I must expose myself to some risk…" The woman paused, and smiled wickedly. "Well, it is no different than anything else I have done, is it?"

Victor Wight was an old man, a confidante and loyal servant who as a boy had waited tables on the Lady Valentine's grandfather. He had already seen two generations of Valentines destroy themselves searching for this damned legend, and it seemed that nothing he could do or say would prevent the last scion of a once-proud house from doing the same. All he would be able to do would be to serve with honor, loyalty, and discretion, as befitted an Englishman. "No different, milady."

"Quite correct. Now, still your idle concerns and tend to my equipment. Ohstreinsburg Castle lies ahead, and we will enter into the camp of the Nightmare in a matter of minutes.

As the odd pair crested the hill, the old man shivered to behold the valley below. Tents, stables, depots and armories sprawled out before them, seeming to stretch for miles. Victor could see thousands of ruffians, but worse were the monsters and beasts that intermingled with them, creating an ever-changing tapestry of prospective violence. He busied himself by inspecting the contents of his cart, ensuring that all of Lady Valentine's portable lab was secured and that her alchemical equipment was in place. He also surreptitiously checked that the black powder rifle and the brace of pistols he had packed were loaded and ready to fire – it was all well for Miss Isabella to be confident, but the extra assurance couldn't hurt.

"You men will escort me to your leader," she commanded. The five berserkers who had been standing guard at the edge of the camp stared at her, utterly dumbstruck. It would take some kind of idiot noblewoman to simply ride carelessly up to a group of armed mercenaries, completely alone (the old man sitting nervously on the cart didn't count) and unprotected, and offer herself up for capture and ransom… or worse.

Taking their disbelieving silence as incomprehension, she repeated the command in French, again in German, and a third time in Spanish, growing more frustrated with each repetition. She was dredging the limits of her education to try to formulate the statement in Italian when the group's apparent leader pulled a small black stone from his pocket and raised it over his head.

It was a good trick, and it normally have worked, but Victor and Isabella were alchemists, and recognized the thunderstone for what it was; when the barbarian struck it to the ground, they were ready. The explosion of light and sound caused Lady Isabella's horse to rear, but instead of being thrown, the warrior woman simply rolled from the saddle and landed adroitly on the muddy ground. Her sword, a short-bladed steel weapon with an ornate hilt, was out in one smooth movement.

The band of ruffians was taken aback – instead of the frightened and dazed woman they were expecting, the were facing a sword-bearing foe, and one indeed who was significantly taller than the tallest of them. Furthermore, the old man on the cart didn't seem so insignificant now that he had a arquebus trained their leader with an unwavering hand.

"Leave him, Victor," the woman said casually. "He is _mine_." She held her blade in a seemingly negligent way, and smiled scornfully at her opponent. "If he ever musters the nerve to draw steel and face me, of course."

Enraged, the brigand drew his own sword, a short, jagged weapon with a cruel edge. With a roar, he feinted low and brought his sword up in a high slash, intent on carving a lesson into the arrogant bitch's face.

Except that the feint didn't fool her, and steel crashed on steel for a brief second – then she stepped inside his guard and her riposte flicked out, opening two shallow, painful slashes, one on each shoulder.

Now in pain, the mercenary lunged closer, hoping to overpower her with his strength. Without hesitation, the aristocrat smashed in the torso with the butt of her weapon, right beneath the breastbone. As the man buckled, gasping, Isabella brought the sword around in an arc, striking her foe where the neck met the shoulder, slicing through the collarbone and into his chest. He died with a choked sigh.

The other four warriors gaped, then roared as one and readied their own weapons, circling her. She narrowed her eyes at the pack of them menacingly. "You wish for more?" she hissed. "Very well."

No one watching knew quite what she did, but there was a subtle shift in her grip, perhaps a button pressed or a tiny twist, but suddenly her sword broke apart into pieces. Instead of a sold blade, it was thin sheets of razor-sharp metal connected by a wire thread, like a bladed whip. With a metallic crash, she lashed the weapon around herself, daring her opponents to approach.

With the suddenness of a breaking dam, all four attacked at once, and the air was alive with gleaming metal. The noblewoman twisted and danced, ducking the probing tip of a spear while the "whip" lashed one opponent, and an armored boot knocked another into the dirt with a roundhouse kick.

The first attacker reeled back, clutching the bloody ruins of his face, and the man who had been kicked scrambled to his feet with real fear in his eyes. This woman wasn't just good – she was _impossibly_ good – the man had seen the Nightmare's elite berserkers and lizardmen in battle, and she was just as skilled, if not better. Still slightly stunned from the kick, he stayed a little ways back as his companions pressed their attack.

The spearman was staying a ways back, holding his weapon in both hands and stabbing and slashing at the air, trying to keep the newcomer on the defensive. The final attacker was trying to get inside the whirlwind of blades around her in order to bring his knives into play.

It was only a matter of time, however – the spearman stumbled and found himself with the wire whip encircling his chest. He screamed in agony when the noblewoman reclaimed her weapon, the steel fragments tearing his chest and stomach apart. The knife wielder though to take advantage of her distraction and leapt at her back, only to find himself smashed to the ground by another kick. An armored boot pressed down on his throat as he thrashed and struggled feebly, and the last vision he saw on this earth was the woman's face, beautiful and cruel and dirty, as she smirked viciously down at him and the blackness closed in.

She looked at the final brigand to face her, and she draped the bloodstained whip about her shoulders. "Shall we continue?" she purred seductively.

The warrior looked at her, and at the bodies on the ground, two dead and two bleeding out their last, and he sheathed his sword. Kneeling in the dust at the woman's feet, he spoke in thickly accented English. "I will lead you to the Lord Azure."

"Mnn…" she whispered in his ear, "I thought you might say that. Now, stand and show me the way."

Her face and clothes were stained with dust and flecks of blood, and Victor looked with distaste at the woman his charming little girl had become. When had the blond girl, so serious, so compassionate, become this merciless killer, this manipulating sorceress? He cursed the bitch Fate, and the madness that seemed to grip his patron's family more strongly with each generation. He cursed most of all the thrice-damned "ultimate weapon" that drove them all to ruin.

The Countess Valentine remained oblivious to her servant's moods as she painstaking reattached the individual shards of blade back together. Once the blade was complete, she locked it back into the hilt of the weapon, and checked that the mechanical apparatus that kept it secure was back in place. After a few practice swings to ensure that it was still in perfect operation, she grinned and wiped the blood away from her eyes with a ruined velvet sleeve.

A crowd of ruffians had gathered to watch the fight, but it parted soundlessly for the blood-flecked woman, and for her guard and servant.


End file.
